


Secret Agent Men (To Lead a Life of Danger)

by myadamantiumheart



Category: Batman - All Media Types, James Bond (Movies), Skyfall - Fandom
Genre: AU, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-27
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:08:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myadamantiumheart/pseuds/myadamantiumheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And it may seem strange, but oddly enough, it works. Tim and Q and Jason and Bond, and somehow this Batman Inc.-MI6 liaison team might just not crash and burn. (An AU composed mainly of drabbles wherein MI6 requests a liaison with Batman Inc. and Bruce sends Tim and Jason across the pond to hook up with Bond and Q.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Newcomer

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the Bond 'Verse. A lot of it is crossposted to my tumblr (www.myadamantiumheart.tumblr.com). I take requests and prompts for this universe regularly, so feel free to ask for an idea to be written into a story.

This isn’t the first time Tim has faced distrust in his life- after all, the twenty-one year old did join the Batman’s family. He did face the Justice League, and he’s been on more undercover missions than he cares to count. This is, however, the first time that Tim has been on an undercover mission as himself.  It’s terribly disconcerting to be working with people who straight out asked for a team of two representatives from Batman Inc. to work with their 00 team of Agent 007 and the Quartermaster Q.

Tim’s not exactly used to people flat out pre-emptively asking for help, as opposed to screaming plaintively for it or grudgingly accepting it. But if there’s one thing about this team up that he expected, it’s this- the distrust. 007 clearly doesn’t trust him. Q is less freakishly paranoid about him and his whereabouts at all times; after all, the second he introduced Q to Babs, they were getting along like a house on fire, and by that night Q had already read up on Tim’s files from Babs, begun craving food made by Alfred, and fallen partially in love with Dick. Q is, though, the less experienced agent, and the one who is not as used to being shot at on a daily basis, nor tortured in regions both unconventional and terribly, incredibly painful. 007 clearly expects to wake up with Tim standing over him while he’s strapped to a waterboard with his testicles in the direct line of sight of a chainsaw.

At first, Tim is sort of offended by how easily Jason earns 007’s trust. After all, Tim isn’t the one who murdered over 70 gang members in the span of two nights, blew up bases, kidnapped the Joker, almost slit his throat, and has died and come back from the grave by means of a magical pit filled with what could arguably be called the world’s best wrinkle reducer. But it makes sense, really. Jason is the one out in the field with 007, kicking ass and taking names and then sending said names straight back to both Bruce and M. He’s the one whose scars 007 sees on a regular basis, the one who shoots at his side and bleeds at his side and screams internally when they’re tied back to back in a cave in Nanda Parbat.

But then, one day, things happen.

(As they always do, in this line of work.)

Tim and Q are compromised- it’s Tim’s job, his whole purpose to both aid Q in the technological side of things by using Babs’ database alongside MI6’s, and to bodyguard Q, given his incredible worth to the opposite side of things. There is poison, there are weapons, and there are security breaches, but when it all comes down to it, 007 arrives with Jason in tow two minutes too late for the action, finding Tim patching up Q’s lip with butterfly bandaids and groaning, bleeding men all laid out on the floor with blossoming bruises the exact width of Tim’s bo staff.

Later that night, in Q’s apartment, when the four of them are having stiff drinks and playing pool on the miniature novelty table Q somehow managed to fit beside the couch table and the corner, 007 approaches him. Tim is mixing drinks, pouring them out with efficiency and a slightly less than steady hand.

“The name’s Bond,” 007 says, resting his hand close to Tim’s hip on the counter. “James Bond.” Tim smiles up at him, serene and a little bit tipsy.

“It’s funny that you think I didn’t know that already,” he says brightly. Bond leans in a little, the smell of vanilla and salon pas patches and lavender the color of those blue-purple-blue eyes sweet in his mouth.

“How, exactly, would you know what my name is?” Bond murmurs, eyes flicking between bitten red lips and pale eyelids. Tim laughs, short and low and sweeter than his smell. 

“It’s  _funny_ ,” he repeats, slower this time, pressing his palm to Bond’s chest, “that you think I don’t know  _everything_ , Mr. Bond.”

And Bond can’t even try to resist the way Tim pushes him into the opposite counter, fluttering his eyelashes up at the other man before he smirks, slow and thick and spiced like molasses, swaying his hips on out to the living room with the drink tray balanced on one hand and a hand pushing the kitchen ‘door’ curtain out of the way.


	2. Strays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred always warned them about taking in strays.

“Alfred always warned us about taking in strays,” Tim murmurs against Jason’s earlobe as he presses past him to exit the booth they’re sitting in. Q is on the other side, the normally composed man tipsy and red-cheeked and giggling with hiccuping breaths at the way the man on stage has chosen to parody a sailor costume. Jason slaps his ass on the way out for the comment, smirking over at Q when the other man’s breath hitches and he stares, wide eyed, flicking between Tim, who’s swaying towards the bar, and Jason. His cheeks turn even brighter, and Jason can’t help it- he slides around the U of the booth to rest his arm across the seat back behind Q.

“Having fun?” he murmurs, one eye on Tim and one trained on Q. Q’s breath hitches again, and he nods, looking at Jason from under his glasses and flushing to the tip of his ears when he tries to concentrate on the gyrating men having semi-clothed almost sex on the stage.

“I’ve not really been to one of these before,” he murmurs, barely audible under the pounding music. “I mean- a  _female_  one, yes. But I’ve never seen, um… So many- uh.” He swallows, laughing somewhat nervously.

“So many dicks in one barn?” Jason drawls, laughing deep in his chest and pressing his fingertips to Q’s shoulder. Q turns towards him, breath fanning across his face, laced with rum and fruit.

“Something like that,” he bites his lip and looks back to stage, but it doesn’t last, not when Jason is rubbing a circle below his ear with a steady thumb. Q is shivering and trying to hide it by the time that Tim gets back to the table, shots balanced on his forearm and two pints in the other hand. He takes one look at Q who is trying to scoot furtively away from Jason and looking ashamed for what he’s probably thinking is helping Jason cheat, and climbs smoothly right up on Q’s lap.

“You need a shot of vodka,” Tim says, matter of factly.

“You need some sex on a beach,” Jason smirks. Q’s wide eyes are briefly adorable, and then he’s screwing them up because Tim’s trying to pour vodka straight down his throat.

“Relax, damnit,” Tim mutters somewhat tipsily, thumbing Q’s lower lip, and Jason leans in to bite Q’s ear lobe, hard enough that he leaves a mark and also startles the man into loosening his jaw enough that Tim can shove the shot down his gullet.

“You’re sitting on me,” Q points out, once he’s stopped coughing. Tim nods, resting his hands on Q’s shoulders and adjusting his position a little.

“He could be sitting on you naked,” Jason points out helpfully.

And Jason must have done something right lately, because, thank the gods of getting laid- Q takes his advice. (And hey, Jason thought he’d never want to watch Tim get his cowgirl on with another guy, but this whole team up thing is just opening up untold worlds, now isn’t it?)

 


	3. Don't Call Me Darling & Q and Tim's Guide To Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and Tim don't take well to being disregarded.

####  _Don’t Call Me Darling_

The first time Tim is really worried about Bond is seven months, eighteen days, six hours, thirty-one minutes, and forty three seconds after they’ve officially become a team. Q is in the armory, trying to fit Jason out with some equipment so that he can take off towards Bond’s location when the radio goes silent.

“007,” Tim tries, tapping the radio and waiting impatiently. “ _007_.”

And god does he hate that sickening dropping feeling in his stomach, the one that means that his fears are coming true and he’s utterly helpless.

“You might want to  _hurry the fuck up_ ,” he calls back towards the other two, typing furiously and logging into Oracle’s database on the other computer while he gains authorization to the case files. “Last I heard there were machetes.”

Bond’s last recorded position is an island that the Batjet can’t get to for a record 3 hours, almost the maximum amount of time any of Bruce’s vehicles can take to get anywhere on earth, and Tim’s starting to feel the pulse flutters when Jason finally sprints out the door.   
He spends an agonizing seven hours waiting for something, anything. Q leaves and returns five times, twice with takeout and once with a sleeping pill he tries to offer Tim until Tim’s about ready to deck him one good.

“You don’t handle radio silence well, do you,  _darling_?” a smug voice, exhausted, comes through the radio in the fifty third minute of the seventh hour.

“You’re a bastard, 007,” Tim snaps, letting himself slump in relief. “And don’t call me darling.”

####  _Q and Tim’s Guide to Revenge_

It’s not a good idea to piss off your quartermaster.

This is a general rule.

If there’s anyone who’s good at breaking that rule, though, it’s got to be Jason Todd and James Bond, the infamous J & J. 007 and  _double-oh-doesn’t-officially-exist_  aren’t people to be trifled with.

But even they report to someone. And though on the list of terrifying higher management, M, Bruce, and Alfred are much higher up on the scale than Tim and Q, it’s the latter who hold the real power over the team. They don’t like it when Jason and James take unnecessary risks- they’ve made this very clear.

When Bond and Jason open up a video missive from their quartermasters after collapsing, exhausted, into hotel beds in Baghdad after nearly losing their lives on the basis of intel they hadn’t vetted with Q or Tim or even local contacts, they expect a stern reprimand.   
Perhaps some, as Jason puts it tiredly, “good old-fashioned bitching out”.

They do not expect a high-quality video of Q sitting in the armrest-less computer chair, Tim firmly straddling his waist and kissing him, cradling his curly black haired head in gentle, firm hands. Jason sucks in a breath- James shifts uncomfortably.

“I don’t think this is the right message,” Jason blurts out, reaching for the remote even as his communicator beeps.

“ _It is_.” the text reads, and Jason swallows heavily, caught between the message and the video playing on the screen, Q’s hands rucking Tim’s shirt up enough that his ivory hip bones are visible, the quiet whimper escaping Q’s mouth as Tim bucks against him and bouncing around the hotel room.

His communicator beeps again- “Do those blue balls hurt as much as that third degree burn or the gash on your ribs?”

Bond is staring like a haunted man and Jason is steadily growing more and more uncomfortable in his cup, and he’s also convince he’s dating the devil. He’s going to hell for this, isn’t he? Tim and Q have actually sent him to hell.

But god, he thinks, watching Tim’s mouth open in a resounding high wail, does it ever taste sweet.

 


	4. Sweater Buddies (Five Times)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q and Tim are sweater buddies. Bond and Jay are left out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hearts requested "If prompts for bond verse are still open, may I possibly request ANYTHING with sweaters. Just. Sweaters because omg they are so cute on Q and Tim. Also. Scars. Or Suits."   
> I delivered this.

#### One

It’s not that Jason doesn’t  _like_  the sweaters, but- well, let’s just say he gets rather tired of hearing Tim bitch about how hard it is to get blood out of cashmere.  _Cashmere_. Who the hell wears  _cashmere_  on an undercover mission? It’s not  _Jason’s_  fault that Tim knifed a guy who was going for Q in that club. It’s not  _Jason’s_  fault that Tim decided to be the only prositute in the entirety of Ukraine who wears a fucking  _cardigan_  to work. It’s not Jason’s _nor_  Bond’s fault that Q decided to follow suit.

 

 

“Do you have any  _idea_ -” Tim starts again from the hotel suite bathroom, scrubbing furiously at the sleeve of his bright blue sweater with a cheap toothbrush he’d snagged from the hotel lobby and some Tide-to-Go packets foaming around his hands. Jason sighs.

 

 

“Considering this is the sixth time you’re telling me how hard it is to fix the fucking blood splatters on your sweater, yes, Tim, I do. I know  _exactly_  how hard it is.”

  
“Don’t disrespect the sweaters, Jason,” Q calls from the other end of the suite, firmly ensconced in his own bathroom off the room that he and Bond had claimed.

  
“You’re just jealous because I got to wear a comfortable sweater and you had to wear a suit,” Tim says smugly from the doorway, a dripping sweater wrapped up into a ball in his hands.

  
“Yeah, cause what kind of rich asshole looking for a cheap prostitute wears a fucking  _sweater_  to the club, Tim?” Jason rolls his eyes, flopping back on the bed and fiddling with his gun, holding it up so he can dismantle it and recheck the pieces for damage.

  
“I wasn’t  _cheap_ ,” Tim retorts, hanging the sweater over the warming towel rack next to the bathroom sink and bracing his hands on his hips.

  
“If you were expensive you would have been wearing makeup that wasn’t from the drug store and a tight-fitting, expensive suit,” Jason drawls. “Expensive prostitutes don’t show up in six dollar eyeliner and their comfortable black slacks and a sweater.”

  
“How would you know?” Tim narrows his eyes, hopping up on the counter and watching Jason sit up on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and grinning at Tim.

  
“This isn’t the first time anyone’s had to pretend to be a high-class male prostitute for Bond, you know.”

#### Two

There are bags everywhere. Bags and bags and tissue paper and three or four empty teacups and many water rings on the coffee table and empty beer bottles that are stacking up next to the barely less than one-sixth full bottle of previous-to-tonight unopened scotch.

  
“Tissue paper isn’t a good pillow,” Tim mumbles, sprawling his arm out across the carpet to fiddle with Q’s messy curls. Q closes his eyes in drunken contentment, sighing and pushing into Tim’s clumsy touch.

 

“This sweater is,” he slurs.

  
“All sweaters are,” Tim agrees.

  
“Why did we drink so much?” Q asks, opening blue-blue-sky eyes to blink at Tim even as he half-heartedly attempts to lever himself up on his elbows. He surveys the floor, the bags with sweaters they’d purchased earlier strewn about and spilling open onto the apartment’s carpeting, the stack of alcohol glass and the discarded pieces of clothing that make up a neat-ish pile on the window seat. “I’m a-afraid we’ve made a mess,” he hiccups, and Tim laughs until his stomach hurts, bubbly inside and flushed rosy pink outside. He’s rubbing a sweater against his cheek and listening to Q name off the elements on the periodic table in alphabetical order when a shadow falls over them.

  
“That was 50 year vintage,” Bond says dryly, and for some reason Q finds that inexplicably hilarious.

  
“We left some for you,” he manages to say in between paralyzing laughter, as he chokes on his breath.

  
“Thanks,” Bond leans down to pluck the bottle from Q’s reach, setting it neatly on the side table and leaning down to grasp under Q’s shoulders and knees, hoisting him up against his chest. He peers down at Tim, who’s giggling and looking up at the two of them from in between two sweaters, and shakes his head slightly. “We left them alone for too long, Todd,” He says over his shoulder, and Tim only now registers that Jason’s been smirking down at him for the past several minutes.

  
“Jay! You’re home!” He says expansively, flinging his arms out to the side and smiling widely up at the other man. Jason laughs, quiet and amused, levering his hand on the coffee table to sit down next to Tim on the floor as Bond carries a babbling Q out of the living room towards the bedroom. “Q and I went sweater shopping,” Tim tells Jason conspiratorially, trying fruitlessly to grasp Jason’s hand with his own clumsy one and missing every time. Jason laughs louder this time, folding Tim’s hand in his calloused one and shaking his head.

  
“Are we going to have to requisition babysitters from M for next time?” Tim’s eyes go wide and he shakes his head.

  
“How will we find the sweaters if you do that?” he asks, plaintive and curling closer to Jason.

  
“That’s the point, baby,” Jason bends down to kiss Tim’s forehead. “There must be thirty sweaters in these bags right now. Does anyone really need thirty sweaters?”

  
“They’re not all mine, Jay,” he pouts, trying to use his loose grip on Jason’s hand to bring him down closer. “Some of them are Q’s.”

  
“You’re going to regret them in the morning, babe,” Jason laughs into Tim’s sweet-scotch mouth, tugging him up into his lap and cradling him close, letting him octopus his way around Jason’s body before he stands up.

  
“I never regret sweaters,” Tim slurs into his shoulder. Jason momentarily regrets not having a digital recorder on him before he realizes that Q’s probably got this place rigged to high heaven with cameras. He’ll have to get the footage in the morning, because this just begs to be sent to Dick.

  
(Chances are Dick will just send more sweaters.)

#### Three

“Did you get a new sweater?” Jason asks, confused, when Tim turns towards him from his station next to Q’s computer. It’s vaguely familiar, but he’s sure he’s never seen Tim wearing it before, navy and gray-blue wide horizontal stripes hanging around Tim’s lithe frame.

  
“This?” Tim asks absently, plucking at the sleeve of the sweater before he bends down and peers with a furrowed brow at the screen. “Oh, it’s Q’s. He left it at the flat last week.” (Last week- when Jason and Bond were in Malawi without radio contact.)

 

Jason leaves with a resounding sense of confusion as to why Tim would wear Q’s sweater when he won’t even wear Jason’s jacket on stakeouts.

  
-

  
“That’s not your sweater,” Bond says abruptly, in between bites of sesame-honey chicken and kung pao shrimp. Q nods, carefully cutting his potstickers into bite sizes pieces using a 6 inch knife he’s just pulled from a shoulder holster. (Lunch in the Q Branch is never an exercise in normal cutlery.)

  
“It’s Timothy’s,” Q says, looking up at him with sharp eyes behind slightly fogged up glasses, clearing rapidly from the steam of Q’s tea.

  
“Why do you have Timothy’s sweater?”

  
“I liked it so I took it from the flat last week,” Q shrugs, popping a piece of potsticker into his mouth. “It’s quite soft and the colors are lovely.” Bond nods slowly, trying futilely to not raise his eyebrow in confusion.

  
-

 

“I don’t think they understand the concept of sweater buddies,” Tim says later, pouring boiling water over the strainer into the teapot.   
“I really don’t think they do,” Q agrees. 

#### Four

Q takes one look at Bond and Jason before the normally composed man bursts into laughter, holding his stomach and falling against the lab table.

  
“You have never looked more unhappy, Bond,” Q wheezes, wiping a tear from his eye and taking a deep breath. “Where ever did M even find that abomination?”

  
“If you press the nose it turns on and flashes like a strobe,” Tim says from behind him, leaning over his shoulder and grinning at the two unhappy agents. “Isn’t it lovely? I sent M a few links and it seems they were taken into account.” Jason growls unhappily, tugging the hem of his down and crossing his arms, trying to find a comfortable position.

  
“These motherfucking sequins,” he grumbles. “You’re gonna get it, Tim. I haven’t worn something this ugly since the last time I went undercover with Matches.”

  
“Yeah, if you can catch me after all the egg nog you’re going to down at the Christmas party,” Tim smiles innocently. “Which starts in half an hour, and I believe I heard that M made it mandatory for you to wear those. Something about botching a mission in Ghana?”

  
“Tim,” Jason started, gritting his teeth. “M. Took. Our. Shirts.”

  
“There’s really no escaping her,” Q says conversationally, turning to Tim and fairly twinkling at them.

  
“I’m going to have a rash from the metallic stitching,” Bond’s monotone makes the suppressed giggles of the two techs burst free, and Q and Tim spend at least fifteen minutes on the floor laughing before the agents can manage to get them upright and drag them down to the party.

 

#### Five

It’s not something they talk about, but underneath Tim and Q’s sweaters are not just pressed shirts and polos and bulletproof vests.

  
Underneath the layers are proof that kevlar doesn’t always do its job, knife marks and bullet holes and mottled skin where shrapnel from an explosion in HQ once sprayed shards across the men’s backs. Places that wool and cashmere and alpaca and synthetic fibres cannot protect, can only hide, can only smooth softly across.

 

Sometimes in the time before light, when dawn isn’t quite creeping slowly across the London horizon yet, Q sits on the counter in an unbuttoned cardigan and plaid flannel jim-jam pants, legs crossed and laptop balanced carefully as he types away with a pen stuck between his teeth (not an exploding one, he’d like to mention.) And Bond sips coffee (with whiskey, because it’s 4 am and that’s far too early for anything when he’s at home) and watches.

 

Blue eyes and crow’s feet, tracing the silvery lines across a skinny, pale chest, shining from the shadows of the hanging sides of the cardigan. Sometimes, he takes the laptop from Q’s fingers and sets it aside, shoving the cardigan off bony shoulders and dragging his mouth along the divots and raises and rubbery textured lumps, biting the unmarked places until Q is a canvas of old and new aches. He bends him backwards, unfolding his legs and sliding them over his shoulders and he presses kisses to Q’s navel until fingers are trying to find purchase in his hair and Q’s back is arching.

  
Sometimes he thinks about dismantling people one limb at a time for the way they’ve marred his lover.

  
Sometimes it’s Q who stops first and slides from the counter and pushes him down on the floor, sitting across his hips and kissing him with an earl grey tongue and stress-bitten lips and the sweet feeling of victory after hacking a particularly hard firewall. And Q lets Bond bury himself in those silvered lines and remind himself that Q isn’t bleeding out on the HQ floor, and then, when daylight comes-

-  
Other times, a few blocks away, it’s Tim who curls up into a knot with his laptop balanced on his knees, and the old sweater he’s drowning in will slip down until his shoulder is poking out, a pale moon in the darkness of the bedroom that calls to Jason when he finally wakes. Tim has more scars than Q, but they’re older, and Jason looks at them intently, matching them to knife strikes and gun shots and sword swipes he knows have happened over the years. Ra’s Al Ghul and Bruce and Ivy and the Black Mask, Slade and Selina and Shiva and, on one memorable occasion involving Tamaranian incense sticks, Starfire. He traces them with the calloused tip of his finger, rubbing a thumb down the long one across the back of Tim’s neck where Slade almost succeeded in severing Robin’s neck.

 

Several times, Tim doesn’t even notice, too absorbed in his computer. Several times, Tim pushes him away.

  
Most times, though, he snaps the laptop closed and lets Jason kiss him into the bedspread, into the mattress, lets Jason tangle his legs up over strong hips and thrust against the far-too-long hem of the sweater until it rucks all the way up over Tim’s chest. He lets Jason reassure himself that none of the scars are bleeding any longer, and then, when daylight comes-

  
The boys put their sweaters back on and sit back to back in the Q Branch lab and cover their scars with confidence and cardigans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Bond’s Sweater: http://www.rustyzipper.com/full/232102.jpg ]  
> [Jay’s Sweater: http://www.rustyzipper.com/full/234695-M52266.jpg ]


	5. Vicious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's Bat-skills are showing. Bond is skeptical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blue-Spiderman-Impulse requested :  
>  "If your still taking bond verse prompts mabey Tim going ninja on a big ass group of evil armed people. And Bond and Q are like. What. And Jason and other BatFam members are just. Oh no someone almost hacked Tim's firewalls. Thank you."

In the months since knowing Tim and Jason, Bond has very rarely seen the normally collected man incensed. Tim is composed, critical, intelligent- he matches Q in wicked humor and the two of them can talk for hours on meditation techniques. It takes something truly threatening to get at Tim. For a long time, Bond assumes the thing that will eventually crack Tim is Jason being injured or some injustice against an innocent. He’s partially right- it is injustice, but Q isn’t exactly innocent.

He sucks in quick breaths, legs pumping as he sprints- it’s burning him up inside and he’s trying hard, but he can hear Q’s whimpers through the comm and he knows he’s too late. At first, Q was stoic, but Bond heard the tell-tale crackle of flame in a barrel and the stirring of coals and the crunch of metal being stuck through them. Now, after the fourth time the brand has been brought to his skin, Q can’t hold back his helpless sounds of pain.

 

Bond’s four minutes out- three- two- * _crack_ *. * _Crunch-slam-pop-snap-crack-snap-crunch._ *  His heart nearly stops before he hears Q’s voice again.

“Nice of you to finally show up,” Q coughs out, voice crackling with pain at the sound of a knife cutting through rope. “You’re rather late, Timothy.”

“I had to set Jason’s ankle,” Tim says dryly, his voice getting closer even as Bond spins wildly around the corner, half a minute out. “Hello, 007. If you could find a vehicle on your way over here, I’ll start stabilizing Q. He’s not going to be able to walk for a while.”

“Noted,” Bond says, sharp and short. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to say anything else without betraying himself, so he knocks a man out and takes his armored van, speeding around three more corners before he pulls up in front of a building with a screech, Jason sitting in front of it with his radio out and guns strewn around him along with the unconscious bodies of several agents.

“Tim’s inside getting Q,” Jason says when he runs up the stairs, voice audibly strained by pain. His ankle is swelling, so much so that he already had to take his boot off, and Bond tosses him a few gun tripods from beside the door so that he can hobble down to the van before shoving the door open, gun at the ready. A trail of bloodied, beaten bodies lead him to the interrogation room, Q’s sharp retorts and Tim’s amused banter greeting him when he pushes into the room.

It takes him a minute, and Q is staring at him and Tim is carefully gathering the other man up in his arms from the chair.

“How did Jason get from here to the stairs?” He asks, shoving his gun back in his jacket and holding the door open so that Tim can pass.

“He didn’t even come inside the building,” Tim says over his shoulder, shouldering open the front door of the building and stepping carefully down the stairs to the pavement, striding smoothly towards the van.

“Who- How- All those people?” Bond is still at the top of the stairs, and Tim can’t help laughing as he levers Q into the front passenger seat and straps him in, breaking cooling packs and shaking them up before placing them gently on Q’s thighs where the burns are temporarily wrapped in gauze.

“I am the Batman,” Tim intones, shutting the door and jingling the keys, looking up at Bond. “You coming?”

—

He watches footage of Tim fighting when he’s done with the briefing, Jason typing a report for Bruce out at the other computer with his casted ankle up on a stool. Tim spins and kicks and spins again- punches, fast and vicious, knife strikes and bo twirling in swift movements. The henchmen who had been interrogating Q don’t stand a chance, all twelve of them on their faces before two minutes are over. Q smiles up at Tim, silent on the footage, and Bond shuts the video off, turning towards Jason for a moment.

“That’s not the Batman that taught him those moves,” he says, after a few minutes of silence. Jason laughs, glancing over at him.

“Tim’s a veritable encyclopedia of fighting skills. A little bit of the Bat, a little bit of Nightwing, a little bit of me- a little bit of Shiva and the League of Assassins and some people who don’t technically exist in the Hindu Kush.”

“He’s  _twenty one_ ,” Bond stands, straightening his tie.

“He started when he was thirteen,” Jason shrugs. “And he took martial arts before that, since he was maybe six or seven.”

Bond leaves without another word, and Jason’s laughing already, shaking his head. Tim’s going to kick his ass, no doubt about it.

—

It’s not a fair fight, not really. Bond brings a knife and then Tim brings out a batarang and then there’s a taser and then there’s a bo staff, and in the end it’s a roundhouse that brings Bond down to the floor, panting and blinking blood from his eyes as he looks up at Tim, blurry in the spinning room.

“Am I good enough yet?” Tim asks, bending over and wiping the blood from the cut on Bond’s forehead with an antiseptic wipe he’s pulled from somewhere. (Bond privately thinks he must have pulled the bo out of his ass because he’s a lot less uptight now that he ever is when he’s been cooped up in the Q Branch labs.) Bond grunts, shaking his head, and Tim laughs.

“You and Bruce really should meet some day.”


	6. (Just Watch Out For The) Q'ute Girls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Q has seen a lot of the Bond Girls, these past few months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anon requested: "Are still taking 00Q/Bond requests? (please say yes.) If so can I ask for something with possessive Q? I mean all the bond girls would have to drive him nuts. :)"

It’s Q’s job to have cameras on Bond- he monitors him, he guides him, he yells at him when he makes bad decisions, and he congratulates him dryly when he succeeds.

He tries to keep sight of him at all times, because if Bond is gravely injured and unable to call for help- but that means that he’s keeping sight of Bond at  _all times._

He’s watching when Bond slips the bra strap down the blonde’s tanned arm, watching when he makes her arch her back with his mouth and she moans, scratching down his back with acrylic fingernails painted deep bloody red. She drowns in the bathtub and Bond doesn’t find her- the MI6 cleanup crew does.

He’s watching when Bond shoves the brunette up against the side of the boat and they fall into the water, soaked, and she’s laughing into the warm tropical air even as he sucks kiss marks across her shoulder. She dies with a shot through the head and Bond’s twenty three minutes too late for her last breath.

He’s watching when the redhead unzips Bond’s pants and lets him fuck her mouth in the casino bathroom, and when she turns up dead hours later he thinks briefly how Bond’s maybe qualified to be a terminal illness.

He’s watching when the girl with the pink hair cries out soundlessly and Bond fucks her hard enough that she collapses over the desk when he pulls out. The pink girl makes it almost until the end, poison in her drink that takes effect three hours before Bond closes the case.

He sees dark hair and light hair and in between, small breasts and big ones and hips that swing.

Silent criers and loud ones, moaners and screamers and beggers and the bendy ones that Bond seems to like the best.

Thick thighs and lithe ones, wrapped around Bond’s waist and crushing his head between them. 

He sees all the autopsy reports too.

(He tries so hard not to be jealous.)

When Tim shows up, sitting next to him on a high stool and monitoring Jason’s progress, Bond and Jason end up on a mission in Latvia and Bond fucks a platinum haired, purple eyed model over her own dressing table while Q hacks her phone for the contact information of her mysterious benefactor, a notorious mob boss. Tim’s eyes are dark, trained on his screen, when Q looks up, and Tim smiles hollow and dark and frightening at him.

“I know exactly how it feels,” he says, turning back to his own monitor. “I watched Jason for ten years before we started hooking up.”

Q doesn’t know if he hopes that it won’t be that long before Bond notices him or if he hopes Bond never ever notices him.  And then he pours some brandy into his earl grey.

It hurts less the next time, Tim touching his shoulder lightly when Bond shoves a red-head named Natasha Romanova into the side of a building and they kiss like they’re punching each other in the jaw. He pushes Q towards the encryptor and suggests that the security systems might be better if Q put another firewall on them and takes over, watching Bond fuck Natasha into the bricks with dark, too-knowing eyes.

She doesn’t pull anything, but she does break the pattern- when the mafia comes to kill her for her liaison with Bond, she shoots them point blank with a calm expression and sweeps up her suitcase, disappearing into the streets. He doesn’t know if he’s glad or not that she survived, but Bond comes back to Q Branch with all his equipment in order and he’s less reckless for the next week or so, one less death on his mind.

And then one day, Q is too tired to put up a front. He snaps at Bond, some idiotic comment about the last ‘Bond Girl’ that Bond fucked and left in Chile.

Bond looks at him like he’s betrayed some confidence and like he’s peeled an entire layer off the prickly ball of genius that Q is made of.

“You’re jealous, Q,” Bond says, slow and deep, his hand coming up to grasp the end of Q’s tie, and Q takes a deep breath, swallowing heavily.

“Preposterous,” he says.

Bond kisses him anyway, and that night he fucks Q on the kitchen table. And then in the bathroom. And then the bedroom. And somehow they end up sprawled on the carpet in Q’s boudoir.

Q breaks the pattern too (eight months later and he’s still alive), and Bond seems rather happy to keep testing the pattern out (eight months later and he still fucks Q in his boudoir.)


	7. Security Detail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ra's is displeased with Tim's vulnerability.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hearts requested: " *plops self in ask box* If you have the time, energy, and will - and if there's no one else or no other prompts or other obligations you have, would you indulge me once more? Bond verse, if it pleases you, the prompt being ninja. I think Ra's would like a word or two. But only if it suits your fancy! *rolls away* (Please and thank you, as always! Even if you don't want to, thank you!)"

“Timothy,” the voice croons from the shadows in the doorway, disappointed and stern yet disturbingly fond. The power’s gone out in Q Branch, leaving them isolated and on lockdown- Tim and Q have been polishing their guns for the past ten minutes and waiting for someone to try and fuck with them. Q starts to go for the shot, but Tim’s hand stops him, the bo spinning silently outwards and gleaming a little in the light of the green emergency power lights on the floor. “I am displeased by the strength of your protectors.” Tim snorts.

“You are often displeased, Ra’s,” Tim says, relaxing superficially. “I do not often give much regard to that fact.”

“It is true that I would prefer you not blow up my bases quite so often,” Ra’s says, stepping forward until he is illuminated in sickly green, smiling hungrily at Tim. “But this is not displeasure with you, detective. I find you are… lacking in security. For both you and this-” Ra’s waves a hand towards Q imperiously. “This companion you have found. He is much better suited to you than Jason, really, his intellect is almost suitable for the life-mate of someone of your level.” and Tim outright laughs.

“I never thought I’d hear the day,” he flexes his hand on his staff and inclines his head at Ra’s. “Ra’s Al Ghul, giving out relationship advice? Why,  _Ra’s_ , one would almost think you care about me.”

“I’m wounded by your callous dismissal of my regard for you, Timothy,” Ra’s sniffs, taking another step forward and resting his hand on the lab table in front of them. “And your callous disregard for your own safety. As you can see,” he sweeps his hands out in an expansive gesture, “you are vastly unprotected. This distresses me, that someone could break through here and…  _harm_  you.”

There are steps, clacking down the dark hallway towards them, and Tim knows it’s Bond and Jason, racing to the rescue. They won’t be fast enough. Ra’s grins at them, disturbing and hollow, before he pivots and evades Jason’s gunshot, the bullet ripping through the thin skin on the outside of Tim’s hip as it misses Ra’s by millimeters due to his sudden movement. He grits his teeth, pressing his hand to his hip, and Ra’s winks at him.

“Exactly what I meant, Timothy. Buffoons, causing harm to you. Think about what I’ve said, hmm?”

Smoke surrounds them with the click of a capsule, and when Tim stops coughing and falling to the ground in pain as the smoke burns, Ra’s is gone.

“My safety, huh?” He bitches, shoving at Jason’s hands as he stands up, pressing the ruined sweater to his hip to stall the bleeding. “To quote a local, I’m so  _done_  with bloody fucking _ninjas_.”

—

And then, two days later- that’s when he starts to notice those bloody fucking ninjas are following him. To work. To the flat. To the grocery. To the park. To the bathroom. To the linen closet.

There’s one behind him in line at the stationery shop, and one buying chips in front of him at the chip shop down the road while another one lurks by the door. There’s one who delivers his mail now and one who seems to like polishing his shoes when they get bored and Tim’s not home yet. They’re like bodyguards.

There’s one who applied for a job as a Q Branch secretary and now serves him and Q tea at tea time. There’s one whose sole job, it seems, is to do his laundry and make sure nobody has put any skin absorbent poisons on his clothes in between the hamper and the machine and his closet again.

At first, they annoy the hell out of him, but eventually, it becomes less of a hassle. Especially since they seem to have set up a shift as pretending to be cab drivers that mysteriously are always ready to pick him, and only him (or occasionally Q) up out front of the office every evening.

(Jason’s jealous, but Tim can’t bring himself to care very much while he’s cooking dinner in a perfectly prisitine kitchen that he hasn’t cleaned himself in over a month.)

 

 


	8. Lavender Nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim doesn't like to think about why M has evening gowns tailored to fit him perfectly.

It just isn’t something Tim wants to think about, the fact that M’s got a backless evening gown in his size. Or the fact that he’s the one who has to go be the cover girl for Bond and Jason, despite the fact that Moneypenny is, actually, a woman, and is also free for duty.

”I  _had_  to be a lady?” Tim grumbles into the comm in the high collar of the dress, digging his nails into his own palm as he taps on the bar with one lacquered fingernail, waiting for his glass of scotch. 

“Bond’s got a reputation to keep up,” Q says, the faintest hint of his apparently massive amusement audible in his calm voice. 

“It would be suspicious if 007 and I kept leaving parties together,” Jason murmurs in Tim’s ear, his palm resting against the exposed small of Tim’s back, pinkie dipping beneath the fabric and pressing against the dimple at the top of his ass. Tim tries not to shiver, downing his scotch before it even gets set on the bar, grabbing it from the bartender with an icy smile. 

“People talk, darling,” Bond says from the other side, his hand hovering over Jason’s before sliding even lower and resting blatantly on Tim’s ass, thumb hooking in the fabric right next to Jason’s pinkie. He tries resolutely not to notice the hungry gazes of the mafia leaders and mob bosses that are milling about in this room- he tries to ignore all the free drinks he keeps getting, and he tries to keep a natural posture, taking the false breasts into account. 

“People are going to talk about how my underwear doesn’t match this dress if you don’t stop tugging with the back of it,” he hisses at the two of them when a glass of champagne is set before him and he can obscure the motions of his lips with the glass lip. 

“It doesn’t?” Jason smirks against his cigarette, dipping his hand a little lower.

“Sloppy work, Q,” Bond comments. “You were supposed to find a matching set. 

“Well I’m sorry that they don’t make thongs in the perfect shade of lavender, 007,” Q says dryly, the sound of computer keys tapping coming through the comm links. “And- there we are. MI6 agents are currently apprehending the target outside. Excellent work with the drink, Timothy.”

“I can’t believe you had to date-rape drug a mob boss,” Jason grins, smacking a dramatic kiss against Tim’s powdered cheek. “Exciting missions, these.”

“You’re free to return to the hotel for the night, 007 and crew.” Q’s smile is audible. 

“We’ll make sure we fuck him at a good angle for your cameras,” Jason says into the comm, fingers sliding to cup Tim’s hip, free thumb pressing against Tim’s dark red rouged lower lip when the smaller man splutters and the two field agents exchange a smirk over his shoulder. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Q says, blasé, smoothing over the small hitch in his breath when Bond presses an openmouthed kiss to the exposed nape of Tim’s neck, just under the pinned-on chignon. “I’ve got all of them covered.”

-

Buttons, one by one- they get scattered, hot hands on pale skin and Tim’s voice protesting, high over the whine in his throat when Jason bites a red mark into his delicate jaw. Dark purple nails scratch down scars, James sucking on a pale throat.

Tim is pressed between them, clutching at suits, foxes in finery set on devouring him whole. He’s certain that the other men’s groping has dislodged his false breasts and backless bra enough that the illusion is ruined- he saw the receptionist looking at him jealously and the bellboy looking confused. 

James and Jason don’t seem to care, though. Thigh high stockings, dragged down his legs (and why did he have to shave if he was going to wear stockings anyway?), garters unclipped. There are calloused fingers in his underwear and he doesn’t know whose they are, only that they’re rasping across lilac lace. He can’t understand the hesitation, but he opens his eyes- it’s clear that the other two are having a debate over whether they should remove the panties before they fuck him, or after. 

“Fuck me,” he commands. Their eyes go dark, zeroing in on him- James begins a concerted effort towards kissing all of the rouge off his lips. (It might take a while- Moneypenny had presented him with some sort of magical 48-hour lacquer that was, apparently, not supposed to come off unless he performed very rough fellatio on an entire battalion of men and then attempted to survive a nuclear bomb. Tim doesn’t particularly mind the thought of making Jason and James work extra hard to kiss it all off, though.)

Jason slides his fingers in the back of the dip of the dress again, the neckline unbuttoned and the dress sliding off his shoulders, and then he pauses. The texture of Tim’s skin is off, so he pulls at the fabric until he can see inside. James protests when Jason tugs Tim away from him, but then Jason is turning Tim so that his back is to both of them, and slipping the dress down enough that Bond can see the swirls of the temporary 007 tattoo on the dimple of Tim’s sacrum and down, swirling in the center of a stylized bat, the same one Jason used to wear on his chest.

It’s all across Tim’s ass, peeking through the sheer lavender lace panties. Jason swallows heavily. James seems to have stopped breathing. Tim looks over his shoulder and them and smiles, slow and wet and absolutely seductive, his plum-tipped fingers hooking in the neckline of the dress where it’s spread across his hips. He shimmies vaguely and laughs, almost silently, at the look on their faces. 

“Never underestimate Q and I, boys,” Tim murmurs, and-

The dress falls to the floor. 

-

Tim’s head has fallen back, resting on Bond’s shoulder, and Q can’t help but blearily note the way the other man’s thighs are trembling, slick with lube and cum and shaking hard enough that before Bond and Jason even get fully inside of him, his legs collapse and he falls, crying out high and sharp at the feeling of sudden deep penetration. Jason’s hands soothe, smoothing over his hip bones, but Bond’s don’t, wrapping, calloused, around his cock and thumbing the flushed, slick head until the younger man’s weak writhing movements bring almost-tears to Tim’s eyes at the sensitivity of his body.

Tim is gasping for air that Bond and Jason are sucking away from his lungs, bright red from his cheekbones down past swollen, sucked on nipples to his slick, aching cock. It hurt, so good and so full and so deep, and Jason’s mouth was leaving red marks on one shoulder while Bond bit at the other, the two of them fucking in deep and relentless until Tim’s entire body was being supported by their arms, limp and aching and jolting with each strike to his nerves, helpless, weak, whimpering moans escaping his swollen lips.

Q takes a deep breath and leans back from his computer screen.

-

_**The Dress:** _


End file.
